By Ollie Linton
Darcy would like this desk, he thought, running his fingertips over the lacquered wood. It was the same one he had seen Darcy putting together through the window last Tuesday after he got home from the recording studio. Elliot knew it was the same make and model because Darcy had hidden the receipt for him to find in his wheelie bin. Little gifts like that always warmed his chest, filling it up with love—one gesture at a time.
He traced the name on the receipt, five simple letters forming a word Elliot would worship for the rest of his days. He tried to ignore the sense of betrayal bubbling in his veins when he thought about Darcy uttering that word to someone else, instead deciding to focus on the musician’s perfect thoughtlessness. To keep it safe, he paperclipped the receipt into his notebook with all the others, noting down the date and time of its collection. Darcy wouldn’t want him to mishandle his gifts.
Elliot had made sure to measure the distance between each decoration on his desk. Everything had to be in perfect order, as it was in Darcy’s place. He even had all the same worn-down, taped-up CD cases as Darcy, and would play them on his stereo at the exact time he could hear Darcy playing his. Today it was the debut album of a local band Darcy had recently gotten into. Elliot had been to a few of their gigs. He wasn’t much of a fan, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was Darcy’s laid-back smile as he let his body sway to the music, cheap tap beer in hand. Elliot eventually got used to the unrestrained punk atmosphere, finding a home in the persona he would put on there.
The second track started playing, a defiant tune about paying taxes, as Elliot slipped on what Darcy would call his battle jacket. No two battle jackets were supposed to be the same, each one a reflection of an individual’s interests and morals, but nobody seemed to notice that his was an exact replica of Darcy’s. It helped that Elliot made sure to never get too close to him; his job was to watch Darcy from afar, ensuring he was safe while he studied his every move. At those gigs, Elliot was just like Darcy, unashamedly chill and flying by the seat of his pants. Sometimes he’d spark up a conversation with one of the locals, ensuring Darcy was still in view, rehashing the same lines he learned from listening to the other man.
He wasn’t a messy person. In fact, Elliot couldn’t stand anything being out of sorts. He had to remind himself that the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes on his floor was for the sake of authenticity. He knew Darcy didn’t like it either. When he would sit in the branches of the old jacaranda outside Darcy’s apartment, he could hear him exhaustedly muttering to himself about the state of his place. Elliot almost wanted to sneak in and clean up for Darcy to ease the perpetual crease in his brow. Perhaps then Darcy would see him. Appreciate him. But he knew Darcy didn’t like people in his apartment. Elliot had enough close calls to know that he was a suspicious man, and coming home to a spotless apartment would only increase his paranoia. Elliot never wanted to make Darcy worry.
Through his radio, Elliot could hear Darcy humming along to the bassline of the third track. It was their shared favourite from the album. Well, it was Darcy’s, so Elliot made it his too. He wondered if Darcy knew he had chosen Elliot’s favourite song. Surely. How couldn’t he? Darcy was Elliot’s everything; only an idiot couldn’t see that.
Elliot had to pause his stereo every few moments to let the audio from Darcy’s apartment catch up, not wanting to disturb his unknowing serenade. He’d need to get Darcy a new microphone soon. This one had been on the decline for the past few weeks. He wasn’t the most tech-savvy and had assumed a cheap, bottom-of-the-range mic would do. This time he’d have to fork out for an upgrade. An extra credit card scam couldn’t hurt. As Darcy always said, “Eat the rich”.
He wished he could just ask Darcy for recommendations. Darcy loved anything and everything surrounding sound equipment, and Elliot had overheard enough of his conversations to know that, if given the chance, Darcy would talk for hours about it.
Not yet, he thought. Be patient.
Elliot scolded himself for not having noted down Darcy’s preferences yet. He didn’t want to seem inattentive to his interests. To make up for it, he decided he would break into the recording studio after hours to see what kind of equipment Darcy liked best. This time, he would make sure to write everything down.
